The Hand Poem by Eric Cockrell

the hand on my heart
feels a lot like you,
the shadow of the stranger,
feels like clothes i have worn.
the cup on the table
is waiting to be filled.
on the plate a slice of burnt bread,
and the clock's stuck at six.
sounds i didnt hear before
resonate in the stillness.
the taste clings to my lips,
the old worn curtain blows.
and i cant for the life of me
remember what i was thinking.
my heart feels frozen
by the hand on the door!